Guitar Man
by Zamelot
Summary: They thought they failed. They pretty much did. Only, they weren't looking at it in the way they'd been taught. What meant more: the money or the music? oneshot.


Guitar Man

Zack stretched himself awake and gazed lazily around the slowly crowding bar, and then adjusted his guitar over his shoulder. Not even nine o'clock and the place was already half full. The regular customers shuffled tiredly toward the back, while the newer ones took their seats up in the front.

"Hey, what's hap'nin', soul brother?"

Zack glanced up and laughed as his old temp dropped into a seat beside him. He clapped Dewey on the back as the older man took another long swig from his bottle. When he removed the bottle from his lips and let out a soft belch under his breath, he slung a heavy arm about Zack's shoulders. He panted heavily as he spoke and his breath stunk heavily of alcohol.

"Play me a memory, will ya, man? Anyone. Everyone. Play me a good one, man. I ain't sure how any of 'em go no more," he took another swig and sighed messily.

Zack gave him a small smile. Dewey must've been drinking since last night. "Sure, man," he offered. "I'll play you House of the Risin Sun if you lay off the bottle for a little,"

Dewey drew his precious bottle to his mouth, stopped, and turned it over, frowning as none of the contents poured out. He got up and moved toward the back room mumbling more to himself than Zack that he'd be right back. Zack sighed and hung his head knowing that Dewey would most likely pass out in the back room and wouldn't be seen until late in the afternoon.

He got up and glided toward the bar, collapsing into a seat, then rapped the table with his knuckles. From under the counter with a Jack Daniel's bottle in one hand and a Southern Comfort in the other popped his spunky long time friend, Freddy Jones.

Freddy gave him a smirk and put both bottles down on the counter a bit too loudly. He jerked his head toward Zack in greeting as he poured two glasses.

"What's up?" he asked tossing his spiked blonde hair out of his eyes. He set a glass down in front of Zack and pulled a seat up in front of him over the counter.

Zack shrugged. "Same old, same old,"

Freddy snorted. "When's it never?" he tapped his glass against his teeth. "So, tell me, man, where you been living?"

"With Honey Bee and her family,"

Freddy laughed. "Not to be mean or anything, because Honey's cool, but who seriously calls their kid 'Honey Bee'?"

The guitarist laughed along. "Honey's parents are very 60ish. They're totally into nature, zodiacs, bell-bottoms, and soul mates," he took a sip of the drink in front of him. The liquid slid, burning, down his throat. Freddy was already on his second glass. "In fact, they're totally convinced me and Hon are soul mates."

Freddy shook his head, his body racked with laugher. "So they're mentally stuck in the '60s. Who gives a damn? That still doesn't explain 'Honey Bee'. And what are you doing living with her parents?"

Zack drained his glass and shivered, pouring himself another. "C'mon, Brian Jones lived with his girlfriend's parents too,"

"He lived with all of his girlfriends' parents," Freddy sneered.

"Wrong," Zack poured the drink down his throat again and coughed. "Only with Linda Lawrence. Pat Andrews ran away from home to live with him in his flat," he refilled Freddy's cup to the brim. "Honey's parents were looking at a honey bee the day they met. When they met. When they had their first child, they decided to name her Honey Bee."

Freddy emptied his glass and shook his head again. "God bless the girl if her parents had been looking at a grasshopper that day,"

The two looked across at each other and burst into laughter. They rocked back and forth, left to right, clutching their sides.

"Sorry, Kung Fu flashback," Zack managed to wheeze out. Slowly, the laugher died away and Zack looked up at Freddy, who kept his head down with his chin pressed against his chest. His laugher was replaced by heartfelt sobs. He looked up at Zack, no traces of a smile left on his face, his light brown eyes glassy with unshed tears.

"This is killing me, man. I can't stay here. I can't sit still knowing we were so close to the top. Knowing we could've made it! Don't tell me you don't feel the same way, man,"

Zack slumped over in his seat and folded his arms over the table. Of course he felt the same way. Of course sitting still in this small quiet town was killing him. Today's music was so commercialized, that talent was no longer an asset that could be used. No one cared about how good your band was anymore. 'You got the looks great. You got the money—awesome. You're in.' Today's music was more about the money and videos and appearances than the actual talent and hard work. No one cared about the latter anymore.

Yeah. They were almost there. But, at the last minute, the record company blew them off and shoved all their music back in their faces for some chick in a bikini that could dance, but couldn't even sing. The record company told them that 'there's nothing here we can use.' Frustrated and crushed, Zack ripped off the famous line by Jim Morrison: "Don't worry about it man, we don't _want_ to be used."

"I'd do anything to be on stage again and just play a great kick ass show," Freddy dropped his face to his hands. "But I have _obligations_ now," he added sadly.

"Yeah," Zack tried to lighten the mood again. "How old is little Becky again?"

Freddy smiled lightly. "She'll be three in four months,"

Zack nodded. "Tell her that her god father says 'hey' and tell Katie I say 'wassup',"

Their gaze drifted to a nearby table where Lawrence, the town's best selling author, sat speaking with Fancy pants. AKA Billy.

"Can you believe Billy joined the Navy? I'm still having a hard time believing it,"

Freddy chuckled. "I know. I always thought that he'd be part of the fashion police or something."

"He was always yelling about how long my hair was," Zack put in, his eyes wandering to one of the waitresses arguing with the businessmen up front about some psycho politics. Her black blue hair hung to her shoulders and contrasted oddly with her pale skin, giving her appearance a dead look.

"You know? Honey's an amazing person, but a disastrous waitress. Okay the worst we've ever had," Freddy leaned toward Zack. "She's a great people person, and she keeps the customers coming, but I swear, she's broken practically every dish, cup, plate—whatever—that we own in the entire freaking bar."

Zack let out a bark of laughter. "Maybe I'll ask her to marry me,"

Freddy snorted, collecting the glasses. "Well, you are soul mates," he replied sarcastically.

"Screw you,"

"By the way, Zack, you seen Dewey anywhere?"

Zack nodded. "He went into the back—"

"Damn!"

Freddy raced away toward the back hoping with all his sane will, that all the wine was still there.

Zack gazed around the crowded, lively bar tiredly; his guitar still strapped to his shoulder. He slowly began to strum a few notes and, gradually, the people around him became silent. Before he knew what he was doing, he was standing in the middle of the room, his guitar case open at his feet, and playing Purple Haze harder than he'd ever played before.

The crowd around him cheered and threw coins into his case. Several, including Lawrence and Billy stood beside him and sang along. One man went to him and forced in his hand a $50 bill and shook his head, asking himself more than Zack what a guitarist like him was doing there.

Zack turned and looked over at Honey Bee who smiled at him, her green eyes bright and happy, but suddenly, she dropped the tray she'd been balancing in her hand onto the head of the young man seated before her. He apologized incessantly while the man glowered at her and tried to dry himself. Zack looked away embarrassed for both her and himself.

So they never made it to the top. Rock wasn't about the A. It was about the music. The feel. The fun. They were all in a Purple Haze believing themselves unfortunate and failures. This very minute he was at the top. And all he had was his girl, his guitar, and one little thing called "music."

* * *

I don't own the characters to School of Rock. Nor do I own the song Purple Haze by Jimi Hendrix. This story was based off Billy Joel's "Piano Man" as well as the novel Vampire Kisses. I don't own any of them! But can you leave a review? I'd love you if you do. 


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